


Vin de Grave

by Esteliel



Category: La Comédie Humaine - Honoré de Balzac, Les Chouans - Honoré de Balzac
Genre: Bondage, Choking, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Large Cock, M/M, Multi, Object Insertion, Poison, Predicament Bondage, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 02:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19758739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: When it turns out that the Marquis de Montauran is more interested in Corentin's tight breeches than Marie's charms, Corentin takes Marie's place in the honey trap. Once his true identity is discovered at the chateau of La Vivetière, things do not go well for Corentin...





	Vin de Grave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kainosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/gifts).



Corentin knew that it had been a mistake to come here the moment the chateau of La Vivetière loomed before them, the dark windows like gaping mouths in the crumbling stone of the facade.

"It is more hospitable than it looks," Montauran said, wrapping an arm around Corentin's shoulder with the gallant intimacy he had shown him ever since they had first encountered each other in the inn. “And as I promised your beautiful friend, both of you will be perfectly safe here.”

The plan had been very easy: send Marie to seduce the Gars, lead him into a trap, and then either capture him, followed by a court-martial and execution, or kill him right then and there. After that, this latest Chouannerie would certainly collapse, and the Vendée would follow soon after.

In truth it had turned out that neither Marie's looks nor her spirits had held Montauran’s attention for long. In the course of the single breakfast they had shared in the inn, it had become quite apparent to Corentin why Fouché's plan to entrap Montauran with a pretty woman had been doomed to fail from the start.

And yet, who knew what exactly Fouché's plan had been? He had sent Corentin, after all—perhaps knowing more about Montauran's inclinations than he had passed on to his spy.

In either case, the plan had worked just as Fouché had hoped—only it was not Marie who had ended up as the honeyed bait to lure the leader of the Chouans into a trap, but Corentin himself.

"Come, my friend," Montauran said. There was just enough amusement in his voice to make Corentin wonder whether he knew who he was.

When they had talked on the long journey from Alençon, it had seemed to Corentin that the marquis knew who he was. That was to be expected; no doubt the leaders of the Chouans had spies of their own, who would have brought the news that there was to be a woman sent to trap him. The marquis had seen Marie; worse, the woman traveling with him, Madame du Gua, whom Corentin suspected was in truth the former mistress of Charette and one of the leaders of the Chouans, had stared at Marie with a heartbeat of triumph and hate, as if she had in that very moment unmasked her opponent.

And yet Madame du Gua had realized too late that it was Corentin whom Montauran had taken an interest in. At that point, it had been impossible for her to keep Montauran from inviting Corentin and the soldiers accompanying them to rest at the chateau with him.

"Let me show you to where there will be food and wine waiting for us.” A small smile graced Montauran’s lip as he spoke the invitation, and his eyes lingered on Corentin as they had since their first meeting, hot with a promise of more than just the death that surely awaited should Montauran find out who he was.

Corentin still could not shake the notion that they had been lead into a trap—but Marie had already entered the chateau with Madame du Gua without giving him a second look, and so he had little choice but to follow.

In any case, even if it was a trap, if the man who was eying him with such admiration was the Gars, then he had taken Corentin right to where the leaders of the royalists were meeting to conspire. Which meant that Corentin was right where he wanted to be.

Montauran's hand lingered against his arm, his voice intimately low as he leaned closer to murmur into Corentin's ears.

"You will not know the men who are gathered here, but I assure you they are all men of honor. You will be perfectly safe."

"Ah, you forget that I have my own escort to keep me safe—all brave patriots," Corentin said with the well-calculated carefree laughter that had made Montauran's eyes darken from the first moment they had met.

With a coquettish motion, he turned his head, aware of how his blond corkscrew locks framed his face becomingly as he gave Montauran a playful look. "Not that I need them with a friend such as you by my side, citizen du Gua."

"You will not find a more passionate patriot than me," Montauran said hoarsely, lingering just a moment outside a large door which seemed to lead into a ballroom. His hand lingered too, and when it dropped at last from Corentin's arm, it brushed his hip as if by accident.

"I would not doubt a man of the Navy." Corentin's smile widened a little to say that he knew Montauran had not come from the Polytechnique. "I know you to be a _true_ patriot. Truer than me, perhaps."

“Is that so? In truth, what more does a man need than the country he loves and the companionship of brave men, all of them ready to die for their country and—"

Here Montauran paused, as if he had accidentally given too much away.

Corentin allowed himself another soft laugh. "And?" he said teasingly. If Montauran was hoping that Corentin would give himself away so easily, he was wrong.

In any case, a man like Montauran would not enjoy a quick conquest. If he were to believe that Corentin was who he had insinuated to be—the illegitimate son of a ci-devant, well educated and with courtly manners that equaled those of the marquis—then he had to believe that it was Montauran's words that would slowly win him over to the royalist cause. Hours of discussion, perhaps, fueled by wine—fueled by passion that Corentin did not doubt would lead him to spend the coming night in Montauran's bed.

And the following day, the marquis and the secrets of the royalists would be his. It was a dangerous plan, but since Marie had walked so eagerly into Montauran’s trap—perhaps indeed solely to spite him—Corentin had no choice but to make the best of it. 

"Surely the only thing worth dying for," Corentin said with a well-calculated, bright-eyed eagerness, taking a step back at last, "is for the love of one's country, and the fellow soldier who fights and sleeps by one's side. Ever since I have traveled in these lands I have seen that more and more clearly."

"And is that all?" Montauran smiled, as if they were exchanging flirtatious remarks at court instead of what could very well be a death trap. "Would you not say that it is for the love of a beautiful woman that it is most noble to perish?"

"Perish? Bah!" Corentin cried with youthful outrage. "What do women know of the valor of one's fellow soldiers, the camaraderie and the heroic deeds on the fields of battle? No, no, do not talk to me of women here—that is all very well for Paris, but now that we are surrounded by these valiant men willing to give their lives for their country, I can tell you that there is no truer passion than the bonds of the battlefield, no truer understanding than that between men who bravely face death side by side."

"Well said.” Montauran laughed.

Corentin took note of how the marquis’ eyes lingered on his face. He raised his own chin proudly, well aware of how it made his golden locks tumble onto his shoulder, the artfully, painstakingly curled locks inviting a lover's touch.

When Montauran opened the door, the men gathered within the large room watched Corentin enter with expressions that ranged from surprised to enraged. As the marquis led him towards a window, Corentin noted from the corner of his eye how several documents were hastily shoved aside and a map rolled up. He pretended that he had taken no notice of the suspicious burst of activity as Montauran introduced him to Major Brigaut—a man famous for his involvement with the royalist cause.

In fact, all of the men were familiar to him, although he had never met them before. These were the leaders of the Vendéans and the Chouans, just as certainly as the man whom he had followed since the inn was the Gars himself—the Marquis of Montauran, just arrived from England.

One of the man stared at him, bolder than the others, his lips curling with ill-hidden disgust. Corentin met his gaze brazenly, cocking his hip as he leaned against the window. He was rewarded by Montauran's eyes lingering on the way his tight breeches clung to his limbs. Biting back a smile, Corentin pretended to observe the soldiers outside gathering around the barrel of cider that had been produced for them.

There was a fire going in the fireplace. Marie had entered the room at the side of Madame du Gua while he had been talking to Montauran; as he watched, Madame du Gua met his gaze coldly and then leaned forward, her hand brushing Marie's cheek while she pretended to fix Marie's artfully arranged hair.

Corentin affected a wounded look before he resolutely turned his attention back on Montauran, although inwardly he was pleased. While Marie had not set out to seduce Madame du Gua, to have that dangerous woman's attention distracted from him was a boon indeed—even better if she thought to wound Corentin by stealing the attention of Marie, for then she would not suspect Marie of subterfuge.

Of course, given Marie's own passionate nature, it was entirely possible that she had already fallen madly in love with this woman, who, from the reports Corentin had seen, was a danger on the battlefield that was not to be underestimated, and who might indeed, from all he knew, have led the morning's attack on the mail-coach.

As if driven by jealousy himself, Corentin made certain to remain close to Montauran, who had him seated beside him during the dinner that was about to commence.

A moment later, Merle and Gérard entered. For all that Merle smiled at Marie and joked with the Gars, Corentin could detect a layer of unease behind his facade of cheerfulness. Did he know that the Gars had led them into a trap? But then why had the captain agreed to let his men rest here?

Once more Corentin wondered whether he should not have showed his cards sooner and used the authority he had been given in this matter to have ordered Marie back. They had already had the Gars in their power back at the inn, after all. To his shame, Corentin had to admit that he had not wanted to once and for all ensure that Marie would hate him, which such an order would surely have accomplished.

Furthermore, a part of him had been intrigued by the interest the Gars had taken in him and the possibilities that opened. To keep the ruse going meant that he might glean helpful information about his allies. And now the Gars had not only revealed the location of this secret meeting place, but had brought him into a room with the leaders of the Vendeans and the Chouans.

To think of how easily this business could be ended here, with the simple elegance of a man slicing through a knot with his knife...

"That is more like it," Merle said when he took his seat at the table, his glass filled with wine.

"You must tell me more about your journey," Montauran said to Corentin. "I wonder that you would travel so far—"

"Surely any discomfort is forgotten if the reward is the company of a beautiful woman."

Corentin raised his glass to Marie, who looked at him with cold disregard. A moment later, Madame du Gua leaned closer to whisper something in her ear, and Corentin saw Marie blush lightly, a smile on her lips as she whispered a reply Corentin could not make out.

Beneath the table, Montauran rested a caressing hand on his thigh. Corentin allowed himself to flush and tilt his head towards Montauran with a heated look.

"It seems, my friend," Montauran murmured, "that your company is not needed today. Would you like me to show you around the chateau after our meal?"

"Very much.” Corentin smiled when Montauran's hand lingered.

Perhaps a better view of the grounds would give him an idea for how to turn this trap they had willingly entered into a trap of their own. Failing that, he needed to encourage Montauran's infatuation with him. Corentin did not doubt that their soldiers were already surrounded by Chouans in the courtyard, and he was not entirely certain whether they truly obeyed Montauran as well as the man hoped. To sit in a trap with a contingent of soldiers was one thing—but should he suddenly find himself in this trap on his own, or worse, with Marie trapped together with him...

The meal passed quickly. Marie still refused to even glance at him, and before dessert had been served, she rose together with Madame du Gua, whose excuse was that she did not feel well and wanted to take a walk with Marie in the garden.

Corentin would not be surprised if that walk would end in a bedroom, given the furious hunger in the woman's eyes whenever she looked at Marie—but so much the better. Marie needed to be kept away from the men Montauran had gathered around himself. No doubt she thought that she was protected by a gentleman's promise, but Corentin harbored no such illusions.

It was a few minutes after Marie had left with her dangerous companion that the door to the hall opened again. The man who entered seemed vaguely familiar to Corentin. Worse—as soon as his gaze fell on Corentin, he froze, his eyes widening in disbelief, then darkening with fury.

"What is this?" he asked the marquis. "How come you sit here dining with two Blues and Fouché's catamite?"

There was a heartbeat of disbelieving silence, then Montauran sprang up in fury.

For the short moment in which all attention was focused on the speaker of those words, Corentin calmly slipped his hand into his waistcoat and withdrew one of the two pocket-watches he wore to display their golden chains, as was the fashion then.

Corentin, who prided himself on his fashionable looks, had put this fashion to good use, for one of those watches stored several tiny crystals of a poison. He allowed three crystals to drop into his hand, then returned the watch just as calmly to its accustomed place, the golden chain hanging decoratively across his waistcoat of embroidered, scarlet silk.

"Impossible," Montauran said. "De Bauvan, explain yourself!"

The man smiled coldly, and Corentin, meeting his gaze, suddenly found himself wondering whether this man had been one of Fouché's friends whom he had served once upon a time.

But no, surely that was impossible; he would have remembered him.

"What did he tell you his name was?" the Comte de Bauvan asked. "He is Fouché's protégé. His name is Corentin. He does Fouché's bidding—I would not be surprised to hear that he arrived in the company of a woman, chosen, no doubt, to appeal to you."

Montauran laughed coldly. "Forget about the woman. I have no interest in her. But this man—you say he is..."

“Fouché’s favorite tool, who has served him in a variety of ways over the years, or so the rumors go.” The man’s gaze lingered on Corentin disparagingly. “I have never had the pleasure myself. 

Gérard and Merle had risen simultaneously, staring at the new arrival with shocked surprise before their gaze fell onto Corentin, who so far had born the company’s sudden attention without an outward show of the thoughts that were racing through his mind.

“Come now,” Merle said, his voice having lost much of its customary mirth. “That is no way to treat a guest.”

The stranger gave the two officers a sardonic smile before he drew his pistol and aimed it at them. With gasps, the remaining company sprang to its feet.

Corentin used the rare moment of distraction to rise as well, backing away until he hit the small table situated against the wall where several open bottles of wine were waiting. Watching the drama playing out before him, he felt for the open bottles with his fingers behind his back, and then dropped the small crystals of poison into them before he crossed his arms.

“Monsieur,” he said ironically, “I remember a gentleman’s promise was given as to the safety of these men.”

Montauran whirled around to stare at him, his eyes bright with humiliated fury. “Surely there is no promise on earth that can be made to a creature such as you.”

“Is that the worth of a gentleman’s word then, that it can be given and taken back as one pleases?” Corentin smiled wryly, then held up his hand when he saw the remaining company train their arms on the two officers as well. “Your quarrel is not with these men, is it?”

Slowly, the Gars shook his head. "Let them go free," he said. "Let it not be said that I answer treachery with treachery."

Just at that moment, shots resounded in the courtyard outside. Corentin hastened to the window; below he found the scene he had already expected, for despite Montauran's promise, the Chouans had set upon the soldiers and massacred them.

He took the scene in within a heartbeat. There was no hope for help from the republican soldiers now; even as he watched, the last of the soldiers fell. A moment later, Montauran stepped to his side; when the marquis turned towards him, Corentin could see beneath his rage the humiliation at having to lead a group of Chouans who so blatantly defied his orders.

"So much for your honor, monsieur le marquis,” Corentin said with a scoff. “You think me an amoral men, but look at the flowers of treachery blooming red on the straw there.”

"I gave my word of honor to a man I considered a gentleman himself," Montauran said, his hand reaching out to grip Corentin's shoulder convulsively, his nails digging into his flesh. Corentin bore the painful grip without an outward sign of agitation. "You are a spy; worse: some minion of Fouché. His catamite, isn't that right? To think I offered my friendship to such a man..."

All eyes were once more on them, Corentin realized. The wine was poisoned, but it would need time for the men gathered here to empty the bottles and for the poison to act. If he could but manage to survive another hour...

And then, there were also the Chouans outside. Even if all the gathered leaders of the Vendeans and the Chouans died in this room within the hour, how would he make his way past what looked to be a company of more than eighty men outside?

"We both know it was not my friendship you wanted.” Corentin’s lips curled mockingly. He turned his gaze to look at the men who still stared at them in confusion and shock. "You are no better than Fouché; worse, for Fouché has always kept his word to me."

"You will see I keep my word when it comes to men of honor," Montauran said, pale with rage. He drew of his glove, then threw it at Merle who caught it reflexively. "My glove will see you safely through. With it, the Chasseurs du Roi will know not to make sport of you."

To Corentin’s surprise, Gérard, who so far had found nothing but mocking words for him, now took a step forward. "What about this fellow?" he said. "Your promise of safety was made to him."

"It was made to the person he pretended to be," Montauran said coldly. “He has insulted me by his very presence, and I will have him answer for that insult.”

Corentin smiled slightly, for he had expected nothing else. "I suggest you take your leave now, gentlemen. I do not think what follows will be to your taste."

Again Gérard hesitated, so that Corentin found himself almost touched by such counterproductive loyalty in the face of his own death.

"Give Commander Hulot my regards,” Corentin said firmly, “and my deep regret over the loss of his men, whom I unwittingly led into such a trap. I count on you to ensure Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s safety."

A moment later, Gérard and Merle bowed with obvious distaste—but they took their leave, as Corentin was grateful to see, the reminder of Marie working as he had thought it might.

There was a selfishness in saving their lives. If they made it back to Mayenne in time and set out for the chateau again with a new contingent of soldiers, they might take care of the problem the Chouans downstairs posed for him.

If Corentin survived the coming hours. If the Gars' glove indeed ensured the lives of the two officers. If the men here drank the poisoned wine.

His chances were not good. Still, it was a wager that cost him nothing, so why not play his game to the end?

As soon as the two officers had left, Montauran came forward once more. He nodded to two of the men, who grabbed hold of Corentin's arms.

Corentin did not struggle. He was vastly outnumbered. His only hope now rested in providing entertaining enough to stay alive until the men had ingested the poison.

Fortunately, it seemed that the marquis was set on taking out the humiliation of having fallen for Fouché's trap on Corentin's body, just as Corentin had assumed he might.

The marquis' eyes were cold with rage, his lips pale as he faced Corentin once more. Then he ripped open Corentin's waistcoat and shirt. There was a small knife Corentin had concealed; Montauran took it and threw it into a corner without a second look. When Montauran found the letter Corentin carried, which gave him authority in the matter of Marie and the Gars, on the other hand, Montauran's look grew even more furious.

"That is your death warrant," he said quietly before he ripped the letter.

"You could have shot me straight away," Corentin pointed out, even though he knew what Montauran was about to do. “Why didn’t you?”

In return, Montauran smiled. "The death I would have afforded an officer—for _you_ , some fallen creature of hell? No. Fouché sent you here to entertain us, is that not true? Then entertain us you shall before your death. Let us see what Fouché thought might make the leaders of the Chouans and the Vendeans fall."

At his nod, the men who held Corentin began to pull off his breeches. The tight-fitting yellow leather was a struggle to take off even on a normal day, and after a moment, one of the men began to cut through it with the help of a dagger.

Corentin held still for it in resignation. He knew what was to come. He did not doubt that he could have provoked Montauran into giving him a quick death—which was surely what the officers would have done, had they found themselves in his position.

But he would rather endure whatever Montauran held in store for him. Anything was better than death. As long as he was alive, there was the chance that he might yet make it out of this.

Failing that, he would like to have the pleasure of seeing Montauran die before he died himself.

Montauran's lips twitched as he looked him over.

"Not so displeasing, out of that ridiculous outfit," Bauvan said and licked his lips. "Shall we see what tricks Fouché taught him?"

His hands went to the fastenings of his breeches, but Montauran waved him off. "Across that desk—tie him," he said. "I will have him first. It was me Fouché insulted. After that, you can do with him what you want. And if he can take all of that, my Chouans will surely find a way to put his stamina to the test."

Within moments, Corentin found himself pushed across a desk. Ropes dug tightly into his skin as his legs were forced apart and tied to each leg of the desk.

There was no need for that—what use would it be to struggle? Still, as resigned to his fate as he was, he could not suppress a shiver when Montauran stepped between his spread legs and trailed a hand down his back. His skin was unblemished—no matter what games Fouché had played, he had always taken care that none would leave lasting marks.

"Such pretty soft skin," Montauran said with a sneer in his voice. "I see that you have never entered a battlefield honestly."

Corentin could feel Montauran nestle with the fastenings of his own breeches.

"If you want what I was taught," Corentin pointed out, little believing that it would gain him an advantage, "you will have to untie me. I could please you in ways—"

"Be silent," Bauvan said and struck him across the face.

Montauran took him dry. Corentin gritted his teeth at the ache as Montauran forced himself inside his body. The sensation was not new; still, he was breathing heavily, staring at the pattern of the wooden desk to distract himself from the pain. There was worse to come, in any case.

Montauran's fingers dug into his skin in appreciation as he took him with harsh thrusts.

"No longer so smug now.” Montauran laughed. "I like you better this way. Perhaps I should send Fouché a letter to thank him for his present, and assure him that I put it to good use?"

"If you call this good use," Corentin could not resist to retort, "then you are truly little more than the schoolboy you pretended to be in Alençon."

"Shut that filthy mouth for me, de Bauvan," Montauran commanded breathlessly.

A moment later, Corentin found his mouth occupied by the sizable prick of the Comte, his girth so ample that even Corentin, who had mastered that lesson while still at school, found himself choking on it.

Neither Montauran nor Bauvan paid any attention to his struggles. It was difficult to breathe, but the first time he managed to pry his head away to gasp desperately for air, Bauvan buried his hands roughly in his hair. When he forced his cock down Corentin's throat once more, he kept a tight grip on it while Corentin swallowed desperately around him.

Montauran was still fucking him with furious, short thrusts, each of them burning as his body was forced open again and again. But worse was Bauvan's cock in his mouth. No matter what he did, Bauvan did not relent, even as Corentin began to suck on it as much as he was able to, trying desperately to wrap his tongue around it even as he was choking on the massive prick. Tears were streaming from his eyes, his chest burning as his body desperately cried for air—and then, at last, Bauvan groaned, the bitter heat of his seed filling Corentin's mouth, who choked and sputtered, coughing weakly as his cheek came to rest in a pool of Bauvan's release that was dripping from his aching mouth.

Dimly, he realized that Montauran was still fucking him, but the relief of breathing air once more was stronger even than the ache of his body. He bore the rest of Montauran's use of him quietly, and when the panic of choking began to die away, tried to make himself focus on how many men were left in the room.

Montauran, de Bauvan, the abbé Gudin, La Billardière, Major Brigaut… Two of them had used him. Had the others started on a new bottle of wine meanwhile?

Panting softly for air, Corentin twisted his head, ignoring the seed still dripping from his bruised lips.

The bottles stood where he had left them. Just as a deep, sharp disappointment began to spread in his chest, he saw Bauvan tuck himself back into his breeches once more—only to walk over to the table by the window and grab two of the bottles, returning with them to where the other men were watching.

Corentin could not twist his head far enough to watch what happened there. Still. If the men began to drink now, he might live…

"I think I like you better this way," Montauran murmured hoarsely, bending over him so that his panting breath came hot against Corentin’s ear. "I wish I could send you back to Fouché like this. It is a pity that I cannot let you go."

Corentin bit back another sharp reply. His body was still aching, but at least Montauran's possession of him was bearable. Perhaps, if the others were as easy to satisfy as Montauran...

Brigaut came next. He was laughing as he dug his fingers into Corentin's arse, holding him open; even though his hole was sore, Brigaut slid in easily enough, Corentin’s body slick now with Montauran's release.

There was relief in that, at least. If this act was all they wanted from him, that was easy enough—but he would have to keep their interest to make it last.

Tentatively, he raised his hips, ignoring the ache of his swollen hole as he tightened around Brigaut's cock. Brigaut rewarded his efforts with a groan of appreciation, thrusting harder and sliding even deeper, the changed angle forcing a muffled groan from Corentin as well at the familiar pressure building inside him.

Never mind; he could not afford any distraction now. The act was familiar, his body responding as it was supposed to; that was all.

After Bauvan, another man followed, and then another. The penetration still hurt, even though Corentin could feel warmth trickle down his thighs as one after the other found release inside his aching hole.

"By the time you are done with him maybe I will not want him anymore," a man said with the hoarse laugh that Corentin recognized dimly as that of de Longuy.

"By the time we are done with him he will still feel as tight as a virgin to you," the man currently buried inside him retorted breathlessly, pushing in with another hard thrust that forced Corentin to grit his teeth.

From the way he was positioned on the desk, he could not see what was going on in the room. A moment later, a man stepped into view—Longuy, with his powerful build and fearsome face marked by the war. His eyes were cold, and there was a sharp smile on his face as he looked down at Corentin.

While the man behind him was still finishing inside him, Longuy unhurriedly opened his breeches. Corentin had been able to see that he was hard, the woolen fabric straining to hold him—but what Longuy revealed made Corentin's throat go dry with fear at last. The man was large, his shaft of a girth and length that seemed nearly grotesque to Corentin. Longuy's smile widened as he began to leisurely stroke his cock.

"Most scream when this first goes in," he said conversationally. "I think you are going to as well.”

Corentin could not suppress a small shudder of fear when Longuy pressed his cock to his lips. Despite his terror, he opened his mouth willingly, licking at the exposed tip with a frightened eagerness though he could not say what would be worse—surely it would be impossible to survive having this thing forced down his throat?

Longuy made an appreciative sound, but the man behind him finished at last with a grunt, pulling his cock from Corentin's aching hole, and Longuy stepped back with a chuckle.

Corentin could feel his heart hammering in his chest as Longuy took his place behind him—but instead of the impossible penetration he had expected, what followed seemed just as improbable.

The ropes that bound him were loosened. Then a large hand closed around his neck and roughly pulled him up. Despite his aching body's protest, Corentin stumbled along when Longuy led him back to the table where not so long ago, he had sat and exchanged pleasantries with Montauran. Now, the leaders of the royalist army were seated once more, the maps which had been so hastily concealed earlier were spread out again, and in front of every man, there was a glass full of wine.

Had they already drunk from the bottles he had poisoned? Despite the harsh grip on his neck, Corentin's gaze went back to the table that held the bottles, but it was impossible to tell.

He would simply have to believe that it was still possible to come out of this situation alive.

Longuy took his seat once more, his cock still exposed. Corentin found himself pulled onto his lap, a gasp escaping him. It made the man chuckle, who ran his hands up Corentin's sides appreciatively before grasping hold of his hips and lifting him as easily as if Corentin were a child.

A moment later, Corentin found himself lowered onto the man's huge cock.

Even after all the men seated at the table had made use of him, it seemed impossible that this man should fit. Despite the seed dripping from his hole, Corentin felt his body tensing in shock when the wide head of Longuy’s cock brushed against his stretched opening. A moment later, it pushed in—and Corentin gasped helplessly as he felt himself forced open impossibly wide.

Longuy chuckled against his neck. "If Fouché sends us a prostitute, I expect that you can take this. All of this."

And then his hands released Corentin's hips, who found himself sinking downward onto the giant prick, impaling himself on the monstrous shaft no matter how much his body fought the agonizing penetration, the pull of gravity relentless.

It felt as if Longuy was slicing his body open with a sword, Corentin’s already stretched hole forced wide open. Dimly, Corentin could hear himself crying out in agony. He was grasping hold of the table's edge, his nails digging into the wood—but even so it was impossible to resist the force of gravity that pulled him further and further down, until at last he was settled on Longuy's lap, his face wet with tears and his hole burning as if he had been torn open.

"Did I not say he would scream?" Longuy laughed hoarsely, his fingers finding one of Corentin's nipples and twisting it viciously until Corentin arched.

For a while, the man amused himself by tormenting him while the others watched, offering crude suggestions. Even through the red haze of agony that had descended onto him, Corentin clung to the hope that still remained, for every now and then, the men would sip their wine, fetching more bottles from the table when they ran out.

How much longer could they last?

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. His entire existence had shrunk until it seemed like the world consisted of little more than the agony at the heart of him, the relentless, burning penetration that forced his body open, again and again.

When Longuy finally came found release inside him, Corentin shuddered weakly, offering no resistance when someone pulled him off the man's cock.

He had half feared that they would tie him across the desk again—or worse, simply shoot him. But it seemed they were not done with him after all.

After he had been unceremoniously dumped onto the floor, he was granted a few minutes of precious rest. Corentin was too exhausted to move—in any case, there was nowhere to go. When someone at last came towards him, he was not surprised to see that it was Montauran's boots that stopped next to him.

Weakly, Corentin lifted his head, wondering even now whether there was something he could offer that could buy him a few more minutes. Instead, Montauran laughed softly and harshly nudged his thigh with his boot. Corentin heard himself groan as his thighs were spread apart once more.

"I think this spy's usefulness is over," Montauran said. "Look at him. Longuy ruined him for us."

There was crude laughter behind him. Corentin could feel more wetness trickle from him. Was it the men's seed or blood? He could not say.

"Oh, he still has half an hour's entertainment in him." Corentin shuddered instinctively at the now familiar voice of Longuy. There were steps that came closer, then stopped next to him. "Here, Marquis. Allow me to demonstrate."

Corentin found himself roughly dragged to his knees. His body was shaking; he could not stop the tremors. There was a deep, dull ache inside him. He could almost feel the burning emptiness where Longuy's massive cock had forced him open.

Then Longuy grabbed his wrists and tied them to his ankles. Too weakened to offer any protest, Corentin could only watch helplessly as next, the man lovingly wound a string of rope around his throat. Mockingly, Longuy patted his cheek as if he were concerned for him, then smiled when Corentin glared through the veil of tears.

"There, it is as I said. Some fight left in him still. Do you think he will hold out for an hour? I give him thirty minutes at most."

Corentin was not entirely certain what the man was referring to, but he learned soon enough when Longuy went to the table to fetch one of the empty wine bottles. Next, Longuy helped him hold himself upright for a moment—but only to push the narrow neck of the bottle into his raw hole.

Corentin groaned when Longuy released him, and it became apparent to him all of a sudden what fate the man had planned for him. As long as he managed to hold himself upright while kneeling on the ground, only the neck of the bottle would penetrate him. But as soon as he tired, the rest of the bottle would follow, if he wanted the comfort of sitting on the ground.

Still, even weakened as he was after the assault, it seemed no great hardship to hold himself upright...

"Ah, but that is too easy," Longuy said with deep pleasure, as if he had only waited for Corentin to come to this conclusion.

Now, a length of wood was tied between his ankles, which kept his legs spread open—and then Longuy took hold at last of the rope he had tied around Corentin's throat and pulled on it with such force that Corentin found himself choking, his back arching backwards as he desperately tried to breath while keeping himself suspended above the bottle, his clenching hole feeling the relentless threat of the glass neck penetrating it.

"Yes. That is more like it. What do you say, Marquis—does he not make a lovely picture?"

More tears were welling up in Corentin's eyes. He could breathe—just barely. The rope must have been fastened to the length of wood between his ankles. There was just enough give in it that if he arched his back, he could breathe shallowly.

He could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage. Cold sweat was dripping down his back. His muscles were burning. How long could he hold this position?

If he tried to straighten to give his screaming muscles a moment of respite, he would choke himself. And if he lowered himself to the ground to ease the tension of the rope around his throat...

A groan escaped him as his aching body clenched in terror around the cold glass within him. All at once, Longuy's true perfidy revealed itself to him.

There was no escape from this torment but to lower himself and somehow force the entire bottle into his body.

Corentin groaned again, panting for breath. If he concentrated on breathing shallowly, he could just inhale enough air in this position. His chest felt tight, something within him struggling for breath—but worse was the trembling of his muscles. After the abuse of the past hour, he barely had enough strength to keep himself upright. His muscles were burning, his skin wet with sweat, his body driven beyond what it could endure—and still he knew he could not give in. Every time he began to lower himself when the agony of his straining muscles seemed impossible to bear, the huge body of the bottle that followed the narrow neck seemed just as impossible to take.

He could not say how many times he had thus begun to sink down only to arch back up in agony, tightening the rope around his throat and cutting off his air. Everything had faded away but the never-ending torment, every nerve in his body screaming for release from the torture, even if it meant death—and still he would not give in.

It was in one of those moments when he had painfully straightened himself again, the rope digging into his throat as he choked for air, that he became aware of the sudden silence.

Had the men tired of this game? Had they ceased watching his struggle? Perhaps they had left the room to take their Chouans below back to continue their war. Or perhaps, at last, the poison had begone to do its work.

Through the tears and the haze of deathly exhaustion, Corentin smiled wearily. He had not foreseen that possibility. For all the leaders of the Chouans to die, and yet to find himself unable to escape death as well...

Was it worth it to keep up this pointless struggle? If he was to die here anyway, then why not shorten the agony...

A moment later, Corentin blinked against the tears and began the endless circle once more, straightening to keep the pressure from his aching hole, stopping when the rope dug so deep into his throat that he could not breathe.

If he could just straighten a little more, rise up just a little higher, perhaps the bottle would slip from his arse...

When the need for air grew so desperate that a black haze was intruding on his vision, he relaxed and allowed the bottle to slide deeper into his hole again. At the point where it broad swell pressed relentlessly into his raw opening, there was just enough give in the rope for shallow breaths that did not quite fill his lungs.

Still, it was air, and he kept gasping for it until he realized a long moment later that something had moved into view.

It was Montauran, now deathly pale. No longer able to hold himself upright, he was on the ground, crawling towards Corentin, his face a grimace of fury.

Despite the torment and the black spots flickering in front of his eyes, Corentin managed a hoarse laugh. Then he groaned again, the broad body of the bottle pressing once again against his abused opening.

Montauran was no longer coming towards him, he saw when he managed to look up again. The marquis now leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, one of his hands clutching at his chest. All the same, there was life yet in his eyes, and even though he could not speak, Corentin knew what he was thinking.

Corentin might have killed them—but Corentin had lost as well. And unlike them, his death would consist of prolonged agony.

Again Corentin struggled to straighten and take the pressure off his hole. But it seemed as if with his laugh, he had spent what breath remained to him. As much as he strained, he could not achieve enough give in the rope to be able to breathe, the rope around his throat relentlessly tight.

The muscles of his thighs shuddered as he held himself balanced for one long moment, his chest burning with the need for air—and then, gritting his teeth against the agony, his body at last refused to obey him.

He sank down, the bottle penetrating him once more until the wide body came to rest against his hole. It felt absurdly large. Surely to be split open by the bottle’s full width would be impossible. He could not take it—even after he had taken Longuy's inhuman girth.

There was still not enough air. Corentin’s field of view had become smaller and smaller, until all he saw was Montauran's face, watching him with bright, cruel eyes. Then, still gasping for breath, Corentin helplessly sank down further, his abused hole clenching desperately around the smooth walls of the glass bottle.

Despite the copious amount of come that filled his ravaged passage, the stretch was burning agony. Corentin groaned, his ribs still struggling to expand, to breathe in, even as his body was split open by the wide swell of the bottle that was wider than a man's arm. Little by little, he was further impaled on it, driven down by his own weight while he could do nothing but gasp for air and tremble.

It felt as if the agony would never end—but at last, through the fog of pain, he noticed that the clenching around his ribs had eased. He could breathe again, even though the air escaped his lungs now in pitiful broken gasps, his hole burning at the incredible stretch of the bottle within him.

The dancing spots of black in front of his eyes had receded as well, now that his lungs were filled with air at last. It took him a moment to notice that Montauran was no longer moving.

Sometime during Corentin’s struggle, the marquis had finally succumbed to the poison—but his cold, dead eyes were still open, staring at Corentin, and there was a smile on his face, as if he had held onto life until he had seen Corentin fail and impale himself on the bottle.

How much longer could he survive this? Corentin tried to flex his hands, but the sweat dripping down his body had soaked into the rope, the knots so tight from his struggle that his twisting was to no avail. All he managed to achieve was to drive the bottle deeper into his body, which ached with a deep, dull pain.

At last, even that small, final fight against the ropes seemed impossible. There was nothing but the pain of the inhuman penetration. Everything around Corentin faded away. His head hung down as far as it could without tightening the rope again, his eyes closing again and again, no matter how much he struggled to stay conscious.

Once, he thought dimly that he heard sounds outside, and for a while, he expected the doors to fly open as the Chouans discovered the assassination of their leaders. If the Chouans found him like this, what could he say or do? Surely that would be the end—unless, perhaps, if they thought that he could produce money...

The sound of steps made him open his eyes. He must have dozed off into a dark twilight of constant torment. In front of him, Montauran was still staring at him from cold, dead eyes, his face still smiling.

Corentin twisted his dry lips into an answering smile. Whether it ended here or not, Corentin had won.

Of course, he would not leave this place alive, so did it truly matter?

Someone was standing next to him. For a long moment, Corentin blinked without comprehension, seeing only well-worn, dust-stained boots. It was not the hobnailed shoes of the Chouans—but who else could it be? Had one of the other aristocrats survived the poison somehow?

Next, he became aware that someone was kneeling by his side.

"God's thunder," a familiar voice exclaimed in shook.

Corentin licked his dry lips. "Cut me loose, commandant," he murmured, too weak to question where Hulot could have possibly come from.

"What happened here?" Hulot sounded shocked, although he did not seem to expect an answer.

Corentin could not have managed a reply in either case. When a knife finally cut through the tight rope, his aching body collapsed, his muscles cramping after the long torment. Hulot's arms caught him and carefully helped him to lie down, the bottle still lodged deep inside him.

"They killed all my men," Hulot said quietly.

Corentin laughed soundlessly. “Montauran swore on his honor that your men would be safe."

"And what he did to you..." Hulot touched the bottle, then recoiled.

Corentin gritted his teeth. "No matter. I knew that all I needed to do was to stay alive long enough for them to drink the poison."

Montauran was still slumped against the wall opposite him, his teeth still grinning. No doubt Montauran would rather have died than to have a man like Hulot find him like this. That was why Montauran was dead now, and why Corentin would return to Paris, where no doubt Fouché would once more show his appreciation with lavish gifts.

"Poison!" Hulot sounded even more shocked, if that was possible.

Of course he would be, the fool.

"Come now," Corentin muttered tiredly, then groaned when Hulot's fingers tentatively grasped the bottom of the bottle. "War is no time to be squeamish. A man of your experience should know that."

"Be silent," Hulot said. "None of this is my doing."

Corentin chuckled. "If you had been here, you would never have agreed for your soldiers to let themselves be trapped in the courtyard."

Corentin cried out as Hulot gently twisted the bottle.

"This is going to hurt," Hulot said gruffly—refusing to acknowledge Corentin's words, he noted despite the pain.

Corentin laughed, still out of breath. "Do your worst. It cannot be worse than Longuy."

Hulot exhaled again at his words, but this time remained silent. He rested a hand at the small of Corentin's back, his fingers stroking him absentmindedly—and then, at last, he began to pull the bottle from Corentin’s aching body.

***

Sometime during the agonizing procedure, Corentin must have fainted. When he came to again, he was resting in a bed. There was a constant, pounding noise that made his head ache. It took long minutes until he realized that the sound was that of a man pacing through a room.

"You are awake.” That was Hulot's voice. A moment later, the pounding noise ceased.

It had been Hulot pacing then. Out of concern for him? The thought made Corentin smile. Surely not—even though he had single-handedly solved the problem of the Chouans.

"Good. How are you feeling?"

"As if all the leaders of the Chouans and the Vendeans ravaged me," Corentin said dryly. "How do you think?"

Hulot stood silent for a moment, looking stunned. Perhaps he had not expected Corentin to bring up the embarrassing situation in which he had been found.

And yet, given Hulot's obvious dislike of him, surely Corentin could not expect the man to keep silence about the way he had been found? Unless Hulot thought it a matter of honor...

“The doctor look at you," Hulot said. "You will live. You will not ride for a while."

Corentin acknowledged that with a wry smile. "And Marie? Did she return with Gérard and Merle?"

"She did—safely and unharmed, as far as I could tell. She would not say what had become of Madame du Gua.” Again Hulot paused, staring down at him. “My men tell me you offered yourself to buy their freedom."

The thought brought another smile to Corentin's face. "Is that what they said? It was already obvious what was going to happen. If they were free, there was still the hope of rescue, however faint. I assure you, it was an entirely selfish act."

"Was it," Hulot murmured. Again he stared at Corentin. At last, he carefully sat down by his side.

"The leaders of the Chouans are dead," he said. "We killed those Chouans we found in the courtyard. There will be quiet for a short while, perhaps—but I doubt it will last for long. There seems to be no shortage of those damned aristocrats, and no shortage of English money either."

"I suppose you will want me on my way then."

Taking note of the saber resting on a table and the map spread next to it, Corentin had come to realize that the unfamiliar room was indeed the bedroom of Hulot himself. It was strange that Hulot had not simply delivered him to his own rooms—unless, perhaps, Hulot wanted to keep an eye on him.

Now Hulot stared at him, his mustache bristling. "God's thunder! To make you move, after... No, you will not ride for a few days yet. Certainly Fouché can do without you for a while. You would be no use to him dead, in any case."

“I will not be much good in your bed either for a while. So what am I doing here?”

Corentin had not harbored any aspirations in that direction before—the colonel’s marked dislike of him combined with his dour disposition and Corentin’s focus on both Marie and the target of their assignation had ensured that he had not even contemplated whether Hulot might be made more agreeable with some companionship.

Even now, he had spoken the words half in jest. It was Hulot’s immediate reaction that made him give the man a first, considering look, noting that Hulot was young for a man of his experience—not yet forty, indeed perhaps not much more than thirty years old, despite the traces left by the hardships of battle on his face. Hulot’s hair was braided at the sides of his face, drawn back into an orderly tied queue at the back of his head, his mouth framed by a mustache that gave him a pleasingly martial air.

The man was a veteran of the battlefields, or so Corentin’s information had said. His decision to resign his command in the morning, rather than follow the orders of a woman, had not helped Corentin’s impression of him. And yet, perhaps it seemed that his own assessment of the man had been as mistaken as he knew that Hulot’s assessment of him had been.

“What nonsense are you talking now,” Hulot said sharply. “If you think—after what I have witnessed—“

“Ah, but if you had not witnessed…?”

Corentin was enjoying himself immensely, now that the conversation was back on familiar grounds. To see the staunch veteran falter, his mustache bristling, was a sight more invigorating than whatever the regiment’s doctor had given him.

Hulot drew himself up straight. “You are here because someone needed to keep an eye on you. Indeed, I should have kept an eye on you from the beginning. To walk straight into a mousetrap! Merle and Gérard should have known better. _You_ should have known better, citizen spy.”

Corentin managed a weak shrug. “He gave his word of honor—and Mademoiselle de Verneuil was set on following him into that chateau. I would not abandon her there alone, especially when I could see that the Gars had more of an interest in my breeches than her petticoats.”

Hulot shook his head again. “This is what happens when they send us women and spies,” he muttered. “Though I hope you learned a valuable lesson. If Paris would leave the warfare to soldiers—“

“Then you would still be sitting in Mayenne,” Corentin said brightly, “none the wiser as to the plans of the men whom I got rid of today for you.”

“But at what price.” Hulot gave him a dark look.

Corentin shrugged again. “None I was not willing to pay. Although I will admit I would not have chosen this, had Montauran left me any other choice. And I am grateful to you. You need not have returned—for all you knew, I was already dead.”

“My orders were to support you in your efforts,” Hulot said stiffly. He remained silent for a moment. Then he reached out and grasped Corentin’s arm to press it gently. “And I would not abandon a man to such a fate.”

“That is all?” Corentin could not resist asking.

Hulot gritted his teeth, the impressive mustache quivering. “What other reason could there be?”

“Perhaps you are fonder of me than you would like to admit,” Corentin said with a little smirk. “Indeed, to bring me to your own bed—what will your soldiers say?”

“I assure you that no such things passed my mind.” Hulot drew back in consternation.

“And yet the men will talk whether you intended to or not. Just think about that.”

The sight of Hulot all but fleeing his own bedroom in outrage made Corentin laugh softly, although the pain stopped him after a moment. He could not even say what he had intended to achieve by the conversation. Still, it was good to see that some things had not changed. He could still read this man well enough to make him abandon his own quarters.

And he could read Hulot well enough to see that he was one of those frustratingly honest men who made Corentin’s work harder wherever he encountered them. Still—it was a trait that had served Corentin well enough today. Perhaps there was something to be said for honest men.

He would take an honest soldier over a marquis’ promise, in any case.


End file.
